The Flames of Doom
by v3Olympus
Summary: Three parts. Thousands of amazing characters. One enchanting story, but what happens when a single character is lost before his time? Will there be peace, or will blood be spilt needlessly?
1. Kinslaying

_**Summary**_

_**"What if Lord Elrond never existed?"**__**Would the plot proceed the way it did? Would the dwarves finally reclaim their homeland? Would Frodo succeed as a ring-bearer? Would the Fellowship even exist? And most importantly, What would be the fate of Middle-Earth? In this fan-fiction, I've tried to put together, what I imagine, would happen if the Peredhil's were never a part of J.R.R Tolkien's legendarium. In the great author's own words, Lord Elrond's "part in the story of Bilbo's great adventure is a small one, though important." It is this importance that I seek to reinforce, by trying to bring out the many outcomes that would have come to pass, had the same events occurred, with the only change being the absence of this important elf lord. The quest succeeded because there was a Fellowship between the people that inadvertently helped others succeed in their part of the quest. A Fellowship which owed it's making to Lord Elrond Half-Elven. Almost every chapter of this work would aim to bring out a scenario wherein Lord Elrond's presence would have been very crucial,and the events that may have followed due to his absence. A catastrophe, if you like.**__** Glorfindel will not be a part since his reembodiment is solely to protect Elrond and his descendants. I will be assuming that Vilya is in possession of Lord Cirdan,as he would have then been the only one to stay beside Gil-Galad as he died. Do take the liberty to let me know if anything, in your opinion, has not been written in the way it is supposed to be, I'll do my best to make it better...Thanks for reading!**_

_**Prologue**_

After many a restless hour, fleeing from her home and seeking shelter, Elwing, daughter of Dior, descendant of the elf-maiden Lúthien, came upon Sirion, and it is here that she took up residence, away from her pursuers. Away from the kinslayers. Away from the Fëanorians. After all, hers wasn't the only life at stake. Following her union with Eärendil, the Mariner, she now had two innocent elflings depending on her too. If she left this world, so would they, for the world is a cruel place. Alas! No place could hide her from harm's way. Maedhros had heard tidings of Elwing's survival. His conscience would not let him have the blood of his kin on his hands once more. He would let it pass, and yet, his own oath haunted him. The oath sworn to his father now set him on a path of vengeance. _The Silmaril was theirs, and theirs alone._

Back at Sirion, as word spread that they were being attacked, Eärendil was away sailing the seas. Elwing was now truly alone. More so, than ever before. The Fëanorians were ruthless killers. They were people who killed there own kin. All who defended her would fall, and so would she. No! She would not let them take the Silmaril, and so, she did the only thing she could. She fled. Running as fast as her legs could carry her, an elfling holding on to each of her outstretched arms, and wearing the Silmaril upon her own person, Elfwing ran towards the seas, across the bloodied forms of her kin, now laying about her feet. Their blood was smeared across the hem of her clothes as she ran, but it mattered not. She tripped, she fell, she ducked, and swirled, but she would not stop. Not with Maedhros and his men hot on her trail. She was in the midst of a battle with no way out. Standing now near the sea, she knew not what more she could do. Her sons had been separated from her whilst she was fleeing. As a mother she would have gone back for them. They mattered to her much more than she or anybody else could comprehend, but there was no going back now. She would be of no use to them dead,for that was what would happen to her if she went back to those bloodied grounds. Thus, when Lord Ulmo gave her the form of a swan, she flew with what might she had left. Pushed on by her grief and anger for the injustice done to her, she flew to Eärendil, bearing the grave tidings of the fall of Sirion. She shared with him her weary tale , and together,they mourned the loss of their sons, much like the sons of Fëanor would mourn the loss of the Silmaril, and much more.

As the battle they had brought with them seemed to have ended, Maglor, and Maedhros, the brothers, each scoured the battle field for both, the elleth, and their own brothers. What Maglor came upon instead was a young elfling, so young and unprotected, roaming the field, probably looking for his caretaker, his loved one. Maglor was overwhelmed with guilt and pity, for the little one reminded him very much of his own brothers. Amrod and Amras were their names, and only hoping that they made it alive, Maglor decided to take the elfling under his wing. As he approached him, and looked upon his noble yet innocent face, he knew who he was. He son of the maiden they now hunted. Elrond or Elros, he did not know. He would have killed him right then, had it not been for the thought of someone killing Amrod and Amras as he was now about to. He gently held the elfling's soft little hands and led him away from the bloodshed, keeping an eye out for Maedhros, Amrod or Amras to appear. They wouldn't be disappointed with his decision, would they? After all, he knew that it was not in either of the brothers to commit the kinslaying. It was but their vengeance, and a forsaken oath they had taken alongside their father.

However, there was one thing Maglor did not expect to see. There, on the battlefield, sat Maedhros, mourning the loss of a fallen warrior. The last time he had seen his brother grieving on the battlefield was when he had lost his brother in all but blood. It was then that they had discovered Fingon's broken and battered body. A sudden fear began to grab Maglor as the world around him began fading away. He suspected the worst. One of his brothers didn't make it alive. They had lost another. Yet, he was wrong. They hadn't lost one. They had lost them _both_. As he slowly sunk down to the ground next to his grieving brother, still trying to come to terms with their loss, he held the young one close. Tears unabashedly made their way down all their cheeks, for though the brothers weren't nearly inseparable, they were the only ones they had left. Time flew by as they mourned, and slowly, as a red dawn rose, Maedhros stood up. There was nothing more to be done. He turned around, now noticing clearly, the face of the little one he had brought along during the course of the battle. He reminded him of his own two brothers who fought for him one last time, before they left for Mandos' unforgiving halls. Who was he? Why was he here?

However, one look at the little one's face gave him all the answers. Answers he would rather not have. He was Elwing's son, and there was no mistaking the resemblance between them. Blinded by the rage that now coursed through his veins anew, he drew his blade from its sheath. He drew it with blind rage. Unreasonable rage that the fair people had seen only in his father and later, to a smaller degree, in his brothers. Rage that knew no reason or bounds. No pity, and no honour. He would avenge the lives of his younger brothers. He had first committed the crime with great remorse that he no longer found in himself, for he had lost all honour the day they had first slaughtered their kin for the jewels they had sworn an oath to protect. It mattered not anymore. "_Elrond_!" It was then that he saw another face, identical to the one he had rescued. It startled him to see one so young whose face reflected the very anguish he was feeling at the loss of his brothers. It was then that he realized what had come to pass. He had unwittigly taken an innocent life. The elfling had lost his brother just like him. That face belonged to the terrified and shattered form of a child mourning the loss of his twin. His heart twisted with pain seeing the little Elros standing frozen at the spot. Gone was the unreasonable rage that had filled his very being. It was replaced with a feeling he had carried with him for too many years now. Guilt and regret. The two feelings came back to haunt him unbidden when he saw the confusion that was clear upon the little one's fair face. He would run to his brother, had it not implied his own death by the same hand that had cruelly snatched his brother away from him. He was scared. He knew the truth, and yet it was too bitter to accept- If he ran to his brother's still form, it would mean accepting that he was gone forever, although he had not the courage to follow soon after. For all he knew, he had just lost his only remaining family. He was alone now. It was a feeling Maedhros knew all too well. His heart twisted with pain, knowing that he had inflicted upon an innocent heart the pain that he had just experienced. Guilt was already driving him to the brink of insanity. On the other hand, Maglor knew not what had happened. By the time he realized the scene unfolding in front of him, it was too late. He knew but one thing. The hatred he had seen seething from Maedhros' form said it all, no matter how fleeting it seemed. It was silent message to Eärendil and Elwing.

_You and your kin cost us the lives of our twins. We will avenge them, and we begin by taking the lives of yours..._

Gathering in his arms the grieving elfling, and walking side by side with his guilt-ridden brother, he made his way away from the bloodied earth. He had made his final choice. They both had. They would break their oath. Maedhros and he would raise Elros as one of their own, to redeem themselves of their guilt, _if it were ever possible._


	2. Farewell, Arathorn!

It had been ages since the kinslayings. Maedhros had ended his life in a fiery chasm, while he knew not what became of the once famed musician. He had been reunited with his birth parents, but of Maglor, who had helped raise him as best as he could, he had heard no word. Elros had grown to become the High king. He had ruled well, and as time passed by, he too passed on. He had, of course, chosen the gift of men over the life of the Eldar. He would not bear the burdens of this world any longer than he had to, for he was just one of two. He knew that Maedhros had not meant to kill his brother but it became hard to forgive when he knew the crimes the two brothers were guilty of. In fact,they did have every intent of harming his mother and people when they had first arrived. He would always hold Maglor a step higher than Maitimo, for even death cannot absolve one of crimes of such nature.

Meanwhile, Arathorn II, son of Arador, had been camping in the wild. He was the heir of Isildur, and the rightful heir to the kingdom of Arnor, and yet, he had no kingdom to return to. The Witch King of Angmar had destroyed the kingdom, and Gondor was now ruled by stewards. He was all alone. His father had met his doom at the hands of the hill-trolls. Now, here he was, leading his men as the cheiftain of the Rangers, with nobody to turn to. Sure, there were other elf lords in Middle-earth who were duty bound to aid him in the battle for Middle-Earth and wouldn't hesitate to help, and yet, there were few that held much regard for men. What Isildúr had done was an unforgivable offence to Middle-earth. What could have ended that day had been tossed away by a single act of selfishness and greed. His forefather had refused to do away with the ring, dooming their lands to more war, bloodshed and death. Moreover, he couldn't be a burden. Especially not when he was groomed to be a king. The only one he could turn to for any kind of solace was Gilraen. They hadn't been wedded too long, but she was always there for him. He knew it wouldn't last forever. Her father had warned them long before their wedding that his time would come too very soon, but Gilraen gave him hope. Hope that however short his life may be, it was worth living it with her.

Months passed, and time flew by. Arathorn had been blessed once more, for if he had been a very happy man before, his joy was now doubled. He had been gifted with a son. An heir. A man, whom he hoped would achieve what his ancestors and he failed to do. Aragorn, for that was his name, would soon come to be loved by all. The boy, however young he may be, learned the ways of his people soon. He had shown a lot of promise as a very young child. He would be a worthy king. One whose people valued their king's life over their own. He saw it in his men's eyes. Halbarad' s eyes. He was a man they'd follow unto death. Aragorn had taken up all those traits that he saw in himself and hoped to see in his son.It was like reliving his own childhood. The same striking personality, the same loyal and humble nature. The affection he showed towards all others was something he had inherited from Gilraen, and that wasn't the only thing. He too, had become a ray of hope. He too had inherited the gift of the power to encourage all those around him. To encourage them to move on. In the tongue of the fair-folk, the elves, he was _Estel_, their hope..

Three joyous years of Arathorn's life had ticked by. He had all that a man could hope for, even the respect and love of his people, but his fortune was not to last. Dark forces had begun to return. Orc raids became more frequent and dangerous, but most of all, something that had never happened before, had happened. Arathorn was changing. He wasn't the same confident leader, who would ruthlessly, and fearlessly end the miserable lives of the orcs. A sense of dread had settled on him. Not even Gilraen knew, for he didn't want to frighten her, but _he_ did. He knew something was about to happen, and not exactly for the better. Then one day, it happened. His father-in-law's words came to pass. An orc pack had managed to get extremely close to their settlements. Arathorn was left with no other choice. He had to fight for the lives of his people, and so he set out to kill the foul armies along with his retinue. Alas! His long predicted doom came too soon. Arathorn had ruled for but three years. Far beneath his time, for he too had the blood of Númenor in his veins, but fate decided otherwise. He had been brutally injured by an orc arrow. A cursed weapon that claimed his life. Arathorn II, had now passed into legend, leaving behind Gilraen, and Estel.

_Estel_...Somewhere out in the wild, there was hope...


	3. An Adventure!

It had now been many years since Lord Arathorn's passing. Gilraen and Estel, along with the other rangers now lived their lives in the wild. Aragorn had grown up over the years, and a strong and handsome lad was he. He had taken his father's place to lead the Rangers of the North. However, there was one thing that was not to his mother's liking. For that matter, it didn't really bode well for the welfare of Middle-earth either. Aragorn had long decided that _his_ was not the path of a king. His duty would be to all of Middle-Earth. He would just remain Aragorn, and nothing would change that. He would just be one of those guarding Middle-Earth from the dark forces. He would walk the paths his people would, as a ranger, but not as a king. He would fulfill his duties as one among them, but not as the heir of Isildur. He would not claim the throne that belonged to the one whose greed brought about Middle-Earth's misery.

Meanwhile, at the Shire, there was one visitor whom the rest of the Shire folk admired for his fireworks, for they knew nothing of him beyond that. A meddling old man he was called by many, and nonetheless, he was loved and admired by the little hobbits of Hobitton. Gandalf the Grey. Not many knew of his involvement as Guardian of Middle Earth, and the bearer of a ring of power. To them, he was just a funny old man whose fireworks were a sight to see. A man who brought gifts of dwarvish make and caused a lot of trouble wherever he went. He stood at the doorstep of a hobbit named Bilbo Baggins. He knew not why he needed one of such race, just that it was necessary. After all, this particular hobbit had intrigued him quite some years ago. It was not often that one saw Shire-folk longing for adventure. Gandalf only hoped that had not changed with the passage of time. Deciding that it had to be done, nevertheless, he approached Bilbo with his proosition. It turned out that Bilbo had changed after all. It did quite surprise the wizard that Bilbo had all but forgotten him. Thus, it would seem, that the maiar had no choice but to resort to manipulate the outcome of their meeting.

That very evening, dear Bilbo found himself in detestable company. His hobbit-hole being inhabited by a lot many dwarves was not something he particularly wanted. However, the next morning, it was officially decided. He was going on an adventure. An adventure to the Lonely Mountain of Erebor. An adventure along with a wizard, and a company of thirteen dwarves.

Bilbo was in two minds. The Tookish side of him wanted to go on the adventure anyway, but the Baggins in him didn't. It wanted him to return home to a warm hearth, and lots of food, and yet, he had signed the contract. There was no going back now. Not for him. Not after the incident with the trolls, who were now mere stones. Not after all the trust that the Grey wizard, and four dwarves of the company, them being Kili, Fíli, Balin and Dorí, had on him. Sure, they had a map which they couldn't even read. There wasn't anybody who could do so, not even Gandalf, but they would find a way. That is, if they hadn't ended up in the goblin tunnels soon after that. Bilbo, though, hadn't been caught along with the others. He had ended up in the realm beneath, with Sméagol, or Gollum, as he later began to be called, and that is when he found it. Isildur's Bane. _The One Ring._ Not that he knew it then, of course, but it didn't matter anyway. It had been found.

Bilbo had discovered it to be magical, and thus hadn't disclosed the secret of its discovery to anyone. Not even Gandalf, the one he trusted the most. The 'Company' soon managed to escape, only to be captured, yet again, for luck had long forsaken the dwarves who had no place they could now call home. First by giant spiders, cursed spawn of Ungoliant, and then by the Elvenking himself. The Elvenking had no evil intent, of course, but with dark days coming ahead of them, he couldn't be too liberal with tresspassers. Especially when they were dwarves. _Never trust a dwarf!_ Bilbo, however, managed to sneak them out with the help of some barrels, and of course, the invisibility that his new-found ring granted him, and off they were to Lake Town. Here, much to their surprise, what awaited them were some elves from Mirkwood, Bard the Bowman, and some others who wouldn't quite let them continue their pursuit without being promised a share of the wealth from Erebor. There were hoards of cursed gold in the mountain. Enough for them to overcome those stopping for they were nothing but a challenge. An obstacle in their path. One they would never take lightly, because dwarves were never ones to back down from a challenge.

Nevertheless, they went ahead, until finally, they reached the Lonely mountain, and it was just that. An 'uninhabited' solitary peak. They place they would have called home, had the fiery breath of the dragon not threatened their very existence. Just that they had a key, with no knowledge of where the door was. They didn't even know if they were already too late. Dwarven doors seldom lay unguarded (with the exception of Smaug the Terrible), and without a dwarven rune or two. It was with the help of Bilbo's keen eyes, that they finally found a staircase. Where there is a staircase, there is a way in, and so, they followed it, only to reach a stone wall. No doors, no keyhole. Perhaps, they really _were_ doomed, for that was all this quest was deemed to be by most people, even the dwarves from the Iron Hills. _A doomed quest, for a doomed heap of gold._


	4. War And Death

There was hardly any hope left for the company now. What awaited them was not the gold in Erebor, but a dragon. Not home and peace, but _death_. Bolg, the son of Azog The Defiler, was hunting them. He knew what lay beyond that land. Beyond the lair of Smaug, was the kingdom of Angmar. Take Erebor, and the dark lands would be theirs. _War_ was upon them. The dust aroused by the approaching armies could be seen from where they stood. Thirteen dwarves and a hobbit, against an army of orcs, wargs and goblins. The wizard wasn't present at their side. No, there were more serious matters to look into. The fortress of Dol Guldur was no longer empty. The last they had heard of the Grey Wizard was when he had sent them a warning of the danger that was fast approaching them. Thorin's kin wouldn't risk their lives either, unless he possessed the Arkenstone. The King's Jewel. A proof of his right to rule Erebor. The wood elves too would spill no blood over it, for now, the mountain would neither give the Jewels of Lasgalen to the Elvenking, nor would it fulfill to the Lake-men their promised wealth. Not while the beast still lived there. It was a lost cause, and yet the dwarves couldn't turn back. Not after knowing that they managed to escape from the Elvenking's clutches to be met with great disappointment, but they had made their choice. They would defend their homeland to their last breath. It was a matter of duty and honour, after all. They would go down fighting, but they would never let the dark forces take over. They would never bow to _him_.

The mournful silence that lay upon them was interrupted the harsh cry of battle. Saying their farewells, reminiscent of their last moments with their loved ones, the looked at their comrades one last time. A silent thanks and promise to meet once more, in this world or the next. With a strong warcry the dwarves drew their weapons one last time. Arms they had procured from Lake-Town's armory. Some day, their homeland would be regained, and for that future, blood would be spilled today. The dwarves, and their lone hobbit ran into battle. Each of them fought like ten orcs. Bilbo took many of the enemy hordes by surprise, attacking from behind, swiftly and stealthily, but they were outnumbered. Not just by the orcs and goblins, but by the dragon-fire. Smaug had awakened, and he served no master but himself. Orcs, goblins, wargs, and even the little creatures that lived nearby, were burnt alike. The lake would burn as the prophecy foretold. Lake-Town would come to face the same doom once more, but not before the dwarves. Smaug the Terrible would have his revenge, and that day, he did.

None lived past that day, but one. The ring that had taken countless lives before him, had kept him alive. It had 'saved' _him_, but not his friends. His _brothers_. Balin, the one who had always trusted him, and whom _he_ trusted. The one who had taken on a troll all by himself, so that Bilbo could see the sunrise the next day, and yet the kind dwarf himself wouldn't be able to do so anymore. He was gone. Fili, Kili, the cheerful lads. Some of the company had played the decoy. They had earned the wrath of Smaug, so that the others could live. Ori, Dori, Nori, Gloin, Oin, Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. All of them had laid down their lives. And Thorin. Thorin was not to be found ever since. For the first time, in death, he had eluded them, leaving Bilbo much more devastated, if that could ever be. Bilbo never knew what he thought of him. Just that he meant much more to him. Much more than just a leader, or a friend. They were his _family_. The once famous company of the thirteen dwarves was now legend. He had joined them as the last of their company, and as the last one he remained. He would move on, _alone_, with nobody to turn to. With nothing but his hobbit-hole and all the food. That was all he had ever wanted when they had begun their fateful journey. He had wanted to return home all along, but now, he wished he would have just one more day with them. Just one more day to thank them and to tell them how sorry he was for everything. _Just one_, but death is cruel that way. He would go back all alone, spare the sapling he carried back from Erebor, and even that would bring back bittersweet memories of those who changed his life forever. The tree he had planted in his garden would be a reminder for all those who lived there after him. A reminder of that fateful day when thirteen noble dwarves had sacrificed their lives to reclaim their home, but more so, to save their friend, and brother. _They_ had died, to save _him._


	5. Adieu!

It was now many years since the day Bilbo had returned to find his belongings being auctioned. That wasn't the most painful part of it though. It was the memory that came along with it. The time when Bilbo had to disclose his relation to the thirteen dwarves. He couldn't bring himself to do it just as yet. The stinging memories of their deaths was all too fresh on his mind. The others at least recieved a final farewell with honour, but Thorin wasn't even found. The best Bilbo could muster up was that his employer was "a friend". Many years went by after that. Drogo Baggins and his wife had drowned, and so Bilbo had taken young nephew Frodo in. As cheerful as he was, Bilbo taught him Elvish, and all else that he had learnt on his adventure, and before it. He hadn't recovered from his loss but had learnt to live with the massive void it had left in his life. He discovered that the times he taught young Frodo helped him remember them better, allong with happy memories of them. He had told stories of his adventure, but what he had brought back, was still kept hidden away from the eyes of the inquisitive young hobbit. The sword, he had kept away in a little chest. He would have done the same with the ring, if only he didn't feel so possessive about it. He couldn't find a moment's peace without knowing that it was safe in his pocket. In a way, it was almost like Isildur's predicament, for that ring held memories of struggle and pain that he couldn't part with just yet. Moreover, it stopped him from growing much too old. If the ring would help him surpass the Old Took's age, then why cast aside his good fortune? He would live to see Frodo grow into a fine lad and tell tales of the dwarves he had met for himself to the young ones.

It was after many years that Bilbo began to realize that whatever was happening to him may not end well, and yet, he couldn't bear to part with the ring. More or less in Isildur's words, _it had been won with much pain._ It was around this time that his eleventy-first birthday came around, and it was then that Bilbo saw the Grey Wizard once more. The last he had seen him was after the death of the dwarves, but there was no exchange between them, for Bilbo had too much guilt and anger buried within him, to talk to the wizard just then. After all, Gandalf hadn't been there to help them. In a way, many of their deaths were still on his hands. Frodo was busy with the preparations, spending some time with his friends as well. The celebrations that day were too good to be true, except for the fact that the Sackville-Baggins came along as well. In fact things were so entertaining, that nobody knew that it was all coming to an end soon. _Much too soon_. Bilbo proceeded to give his speech amidst much commotion. His last one, before he cut himself off from the rest of the Shire. Nobody would know. Not even Frodo. He had decided to go away on a long journey, though he didn't know where to. He wanted to see Mirkwood, and the Misty Mountains one last time. He wanted some closure. It was that night that Gandalf confided in him about his suspicion regarding the true nature of the ring. Truth be told, they had then proceeded to confirm that it was indeed the One Ring. It was too much to take in. To know that he would have to part with it. To know that the sacrifices of the company were in vain. To know that Sauron had returned, and there was nothing he could do about it, but part with the memory. He couldn't do it. It was _his_ ring. His _Precious_.

It was soon after, that Bilbo's young nephew, and proclaimed heir,walked in after the day's celebration. The two had been waiting to talk to each other. One, to share news of joy and celebrations. The other, not so much. Frodo was told of the quest one of them would have to undertake. Frodo had never wanted to leave the Shire, but now, he realized that he had no choice. His uncle had had quite an adventure. He would never be able to complete another journey at this age, without the ring, and without a weapon. It was his turn now. Things were equally difficult for Bilbo too. Now that Frodo would be leaving the Shire with the ring, he would have to hand over his sword too, so that Frodo could keep himself alive. Deep down, Bilbo couldn't bring himself to leave even the tree and his home behind. The last of his memories of that fateful day when he had lost the company to another world. Old age had tried to claim many others, failing only because he had recorded them. No. He would stay back in the Shire. He would spend the rest of his days, reflecting about the past, and continuing to write them down so that Frodo could learn the truth about what really happened so many years ago. That is, assuming Frodo ever came back.


	6. The Black Riders

Frodo had been told by Gandalf to set off to Bree, while he journeyed to Isengard to gather some information about the Ring from Saruman the White, head of the Order of Istari. Of course, his friends wouldn't let him sneak off alone, and so, he came to be accompanied by Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and though he often wished otherwise, Peregrin Took. He had taken the name of Mr.Underhill, for reasons unknown to many. All that was ever known was that it was the name advised by the wizard, and so, he would abide by the choice. Before he reached Bree, though, trouble found him without much delay. He was found by the Black Riders. Servants of the _One_. Servants of the Dark Lord. Servants of _Mordor_. He had no choice but to run for his life. He had to try and escape with his life, for if the One Ring came to be found by them, Middle Earth would never forgive him. His uncle, or even Gandalf wouldn't grant their forgiveness. Moreover, he wouldn't be able to forgive _himself_. It was by sheer luck that he found himself at the gates of Bree, and yet, he hadn't realized that he would never find a safe haven for himself ever again.

At Bree, he discovered to his horror, that Gandalf hadn't yet arrived as promised. Alas! Once again, the wizard had gotten away when he was needed most. When he could have saved the faithful from wanton death. It was not the first time this had happened, although Frodo dearly hoped it would be the last. Frodo had nobody to trust. Not while his own cousin and friend 'Pippin' had accidentally blown his cover. Now every man in Bree, both good and evil, knew about him. He had no choice but to slip the ring onto his finger and flee. It was a good thing, perhaps, that Gandalf had indeed requested Aragorn and his men to keep watch at the borders of the Shire, but dressed as they were, and for a while, amongst elves, they were mistaken for simple passerby. After all, hobbits were as common, if not more, as the big folk. There was nobody to save him anymore. It was only a matter of time before _they_ found him again. He decided to leave as soon as he could manage to. The very next morning at the latest. Just as he was about to retire to his room and plan ahead, he was stopped by a tall hooded figure. His features did not favour him for he looked but a child compared to the man confronting him. He had been stopped, left with now way out but to wait and see what the stranger wanted with him. He knew his name to be Strider from what he had gathered. Much else,he did not know. Did it have anything to do with his true identity and what he carried? He was trapped in between,having to chose the lesser evil of the Ring and the man.

"_Well?" said Strider when he reappeared. "Why did you do that? Worse than anything your friends could have said! You have put your foot in it! Or should I say your finger?_ "

Frodo knew his choice had been made for him. The man knew of the ring. There would be no way to escape him now. He looked up at the man once more, taking his time to observe him, given that he didn't seem to attack him just as yet. In his opinion, the man did not seem to be intent on harming him. He did not look like the black riders, and yet, he knew the secret. Who was this man? Was he a friend or enemy? Could he be trusted? Not for the first time since he left, he dearly wished Gandalf had been here with him, and he whispered as much to himself.

After some thought, he looked to the man once more, and gave his word to speak to him later, if that is what the stranger wished of him. Having said his part, he made his way back to his three companions."_It was nothing. It was getting crowded is all. I am fine_" said he, and with that, the hobbits decided to retire for the night.

Even as the hobbits left for their rooms, Strider approached them once more. "_It seems your friend here has promised me something_" he said, looking intently at Frodo.

"_That I did. Tell me, good sir, what is it that you wished to speak of ?"_

These words, though spoken politely, held a clear underlying message. He was being cautious, and would divulge nothing to the stranger unless he deemed it for to do so, but if he did say anything, it would not be here, were it was easy for ears to pry. They would have to go somewhere more secluded where matters such as those of importance could be discussed without brewing any trouble. He wished to meet Gandalf here soon, and be done with it all.

It seemed to Frodo that Stirder thought as much too, though his face gave away nothing. He was not mistaken, for soon after, Strider beckoned for them to follow him someplace else. As he turned to go, Frodo wondered if there was a chance that the man could somehow help them. After all, he had met Gildor Inglorion at the woods even as he journeyed towards Bree. He knew Gandalf was a traveller who journeyed far beyond the borders of the Shire, and he allowed himself to hope that Strider would be a friend indeed. He knew not if the would be able to make it out of Bree if it turned out otherwise.

Frodo knew he could trust no one, and he knew he would do well to remember as such when he had his dealings with the one they called Strider. For a moment, his heart delighted to think of Sam and his two other faithful companions, and he knew then, that they would stop at nothing to see him safe, as he would do for them. Soon, he knew it was time to face Strider once more. He had escaped the black riders once, and he would try all he could to do so forevermore, whether Strider stood beside him, or against.


	7. Strider

It was not all as bad as Frodo had feared it would be. Nothing untoward had happened as of yet, and whatever Strider had been telling them thus far had sounded true enough. His suspicionhad not left him yet. He still had a trickle of doubt, but he was almost sure that the man before him did not serve the enemy. All that remained to be seen was whether or not if he was on their side, or neither but his own.

Their talks came to an abrupt halt with the arrival of the innkeeper- Barliman Butterbur. Gandalf had once told him that the man was not all bad, and Barliman claimed to know Gandalf too. The hobbits turned to see who had interrupted them, even as Strider quietly receeded into the shadows. Butternut had come with a letter from Gandalf it seemed, addressed to a hobbit whim he had said would go by the alias of Underhill.

Frodo did not waste a single moment before he opened the letter and scanned through it's contents. It was only later that Strider was noticed, though Frodo told the innkeeper that it was all settled and Stider was there with his leave, though Frodo was not sure if he believed the man as much as his words seemed to imply. He thought of what Strider had told him:

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall beblade that was broken,_

_The crownless again shall be king._

Did those verses apply to Strider then? Who had written them and what did they mean? Was this truly the man Gandalf had mentioned or was it an imposter who had killed the true Aragorn? Gandalf's letter had been dated years ago. Was he still safe or was he in danger? Frodo wished he had the answers to all these questions. Such doubts seemed to keep arising, and the farther he went hoping to find answers and safety, it seemed to him, the deeper he was enshrouded with more questions and danger.

He voiced all his questions, and Strider, no, Aragorn answered them all. All he asked of them was to be their guide as long as they would have him, and despite Sam's doubts that he was trying to loot them, he decided to accept Strider's offer. Much was at risk, and he knew it would do him much good to accept whatever help came his way.

After much discussion and suspicion, a decision was made. "_Well_", said Strider, "_With Sam's permission we will call that settled. Strider shall be your guide. And now I think it is time you went to bed and took what rest you can. We shall have a rough road tomorrow. Even if we are allowed to leave Bree unhindered, we can hardly hope to leave it unnoticed. But I shall try to get lost as soon as possible. I know one or two ways out of Bree-land other than the main road. If once we shake off the pursuit,I shall make for Weathertop."_

As soon as the first rays of the sun set in, he did. Once more, the four hobbits fled for dear life, though they weren't being pursued just as yet. With Strider, things seemed to look a little better, for it seemed to them he was indeed who he claimed to be- a friend of Gandalf's. He had led them safely to Weathertop where they could afford a night's rest before they were on the run again, but even that fortune wasn't to last. Before they knew it, they were surrounded. Strider had deserted them at their time of need to forage for supplies and look around for signs of trouble. For all Frodo knew, his life was as much at stake as Bilbo's had been a few decades ago, at Erebor. He made a choice. A choice to defend the ring. With his _life._ He drew his sword, although he knew not how to use it. When he lost all hope, he slipped the ring on to his finger. It may have saved him once in the past, but this time, it failed him.

He saw the Eye. He heard the One speak to him, threaten him with certain death. Where there were black formless figures donned in black cloaks, he saw the Nine. Nine great kings of men, now servants of the One. His doom. He saw their leader draw a long blade. He knew what was coming,but there was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. The blade ran right through him. For an instant, he felt nothing, and yet again, the ring betrayed him. It slipped out of his finger, and now, he knew just one thing. Pain, and death. He was fading away, for there was no healer to tend to him. Strider had returned soon to fend of the rest of the enemy as much as he could with fire. He might have been a healer, but even his skills had their limits. There was only so much he could do against a wound he knew his healing was fruitless against. The hobbit was lost to them. There was no hope of his survival any longer than there was a chance that Middle-Earth was safe from Sauron. Just a ranger, and three petrified friends, who could do nothing but helplessly witness their friend depart to another world, or worse, roam their world as a wraith. Their friend was _gone_.


	8. Hoping Against Hope

_**Samwise Gamgee's POV**_

I can't believe all this happened so soon. So much pain. So much grief. It was just yesterday that we had left Bree, all of us laughing at Pippin's foolishness, and all of a sudden he is _gone_. The one I had promised to protect. _My_ master. _Frodo_. Yet, Frodo had never forgotten his duty. It was the last thing he said to me. "You were a good friend Sam. My adventure ends here. It is time you begin yours. Farewell, my friend. Till we meet again." His burden was now mine to bear. _I _was the ring-bearer now, and if I failed, the whole of Middle Earth would fall. We were just three of us now. Neither the brightest, nor the strongest. We were merely three peaceful and harmless creatures, against all the dangers out there. Strider was still there, but fate could have it any other way too. He had failed to protect us once, and no matter his word or his nobility to stand by it, he could very well fail again. It was up to me to journey to Mordor now. I couldn't ask the others to come with me to certain death. I had to leave without them, and yet, leaving them here with Strider was unwise too. I still didn't trust him, and Frodo's death had not made the situation any better. At least, here, they had a _chance_ of survival if it turned out that Strider was as trustworthy as Frodo believed him to be. Mordor would mean certain death. That was my only consolation.

The moment they fell asleep, I began my journey, leaving behind no traces of where I was heading to. Aragorn, who stayed awake watching for signs of danger sent me a questioning look. He missed nothing. Nobody but Frodo knew that the ring was now with me, and that is my _only_ hope. _Secrecy_. I'd rather they believe that I abandoned them, instead of holding myself responsible for their painful deaths. I told Strider that I was leaving. All that I asked of him was that he keep my friends alive. He did give me a look I could not understand though. Was it that he thought I still doubted that? Or was it a foolish request to ask of a person with more important duties to attend to? I do not know, and I dont think I ever will. However, he seemed to percieve my discomfort and urgency As I prepared to leave. "Head towards Lorien" was all he said as we parted ways. I thanked him nonetheless and left. I knew he suspected well enough why I left. From what I gathered of his conversation with Frodo he might as well have known the burden we bore. With no supplies but water, I left the only people out here that I have ever known. I couldn't possibly hope to come back, but I would give it a try. For all the good in Middle-Earth, I would try to succeed where Frodo failed, though I knew not the way to get there, nor did I have any hope.

A few days after that, I _found_ hope. A man of Gondor, whose name I do not know, came across. He said he was heading to Lothlórien, from where, he claimed, Mordor wasn't too far, for it was quite close to the Mines of Moria. He agreed to guide me to Moria. It seemed that was where I would claim to be heading to. After all, the two of us shared a common destination, by which time I would know if I can trust the man. I hadn't revealed my quest to him, and I didn't plan on doing so either, which is why I hadn't asked on Mordor. A few miles ahead of the borders of Lórien, we parted ways, or at least, it turned out to be so. It was just then that I learnt of his identity. He was the Steward-Prince of Gondor. Boromir. He was visiting the Lady of the Light, to take her advise on matters regarding the return of Sauron. She was regarded as a dangerous witch by his people, but it was a risk the man was willing to take for his country. He wasn't the only one. He told me that he had learnt from his brother that the rangers were gathering too. Their leader had called for them, and he suspected it had something to do with the gathering darkness. He pressed me to tell him why I was journeying alone, but he didn't look trustworthy yet. He seemed somewhat different from the way he had been when we met. In fact, he seemed to eye me with the same suspicion that I felt for him. Without further delay, I wished him luck, and walked my way. If only I had known him better back then, I would have known to look back at him just one more time, for I never saw him again. He was ambushed by orcs from Moria. I saw him not, but the cries of war were carried by the wind, instilling fear in all those who heard it.The last I heard of him was him asking me to flee. He hadn't even looked to my direction, though I knew It was me he was speaking to. I had to run before orcs came looking for the one Boromir had called out to. Time was of essence, leaving me no choice but to forsake another companion who had just been proven trustworthy. He fought bravely, as befits an honourable man of Gondor, but once more, it was a losing battle. The elves guarding the borders came to his aid, but even _they_ were too late. The damage had been done. Alas! The prince would never return to his people. He would never find the answers he sought. One more life lost for the cause. One more brave soul would cease to exist in all but memory, while all I could do was run away yet again, doing _nothing_. All for the sake of _one ring._


	9. The Rohirrim

Sam had nowhere to go after Boromir's death. For a time, he had heard a voice in his head guiding him, but even that faded away even as Lorien looked just a small speck on the horizon. The last he heard of the route to Mordor, was to follow the path, and to go where it led him. For days together, he walked his way, along the River Anduin. He tried his best to stay hidden from view, but it wasn't meant to happen. Saruman, unknown to many others , was now a traitor. The Uruk-Hai, a new race, bred by Cúrunir, as he was also known, at Orthanc, now pursued him. He ran as far as his fatigued legs could take him, and then he fell, bringing down with him, the hopes of the free people. Now, when he needed to get up and run again, his strength betrayed him. He couldn't make it. He was caught, and there was no denying it. He had brought the free people to their doom. Frodo's sacrifice was in vain, and so was Boromir's. He hid the ring as best as he could, and surrendered himself to his fate. He had been captured, but to his horror, he learnt that he was to be brought alive. They would torture him, bring him so close to death yet make him evade it, just like he, along with the ring, had evaded them. They had realized as such when all his company but him.had vanished from under the influence of the Eye.

It wasn't long before he learnt of the atrocities that lay ahead of him. The Uruks had a task to finish, near the lands of Rohan. They awaited a particular prince. They would be rewarded well for getting him out of the way. Sam was made to join the battle. If he died, they would just retrieve the ring. If he didn't he'd have to suffer just as much, watching people die, and being forced to kill them. He had no choice. If he had to guard the ring, he had to do it with his life. The battle seemed to go on forever. Every time he heard a man go down fighting, it pained him. Men were dying to protect their homeland, while he hid behind darker forces, to guard a little trinket. He could bear it no more when the prince was taken down. Not one man survived, and neither did they wish to. With their prince gone, they lost all cause for victory. Théodred was his name, the Uruks claimed. He was young. Far too young. Once again, he tried to escape, but to no avail. He was threatened, whipped, blindfolded, and bound.

Days later, he heard the sounds of an approaching army, and once more prepared for death. This time, he wouldn't fight back. He wouldn't try to protect himself. He hoped his end would come soon, and with that, the ring would once more be lost to legend. He lay at the sight of battle, gagged, blindfolded and bound. If the Uruks perished, he too would join them. It was then that the men found him. Yes. Men. They would have killed him too, in fact, they had thought he was dead, and would have burnt him, if not for the vigilance of their leader. They realized that he was a hostage, and decided to take him along with them, at least till he was fit to journey alone, once again. After all, they hoped that he would be able to tell them much about the battle that had ensued thus far, and about the enemy's plans. Of course, they were mistaken. Once Sam found himself awake, he noticed that he was in a tent. Their leader had seemed to him like royalty, and yet, here he was, fighting side by side with his people, with what would have been a very small portion of the army. He made his way out of the tent, trying to slip off unnoticed. This time too, luck betrayed him. He was caught. The alert nature of their leader which had saved his life, had just brought him to what he thought was a worse fate. He didn't know what was to come, just that his long kept secret may not stay hidden for much longer once they got through with him.


	10. Interrogation

Sam had been found by the leader of the riders that had rescued him from the Uruks. Sam would now appear as nothing more than an ungrateful person, for this was not how he should have repaid their favour. He would even be viewed with suspicion. Innocents wouldn't flee without cause. Sam didn't feel any safer here, than he had felt as a hostage. The leader certainly didn't look forgiving. Before he could think about it any further, he found himself face to face with a person he had now come to fear. He was tall with flaxen hair, and had an air of command about him. An aura that made him feel threatened. Endangered. The man was not daft either. He would have to tread carefully. He could hear questions being put across to him, but he understood nothing. All he could think about was his recent past, and he blamed none but himself for it. All the death that he had seen had been his fault. He couldn't bring himself to reply just as yet. At least his silence wouldn't prove half as costly as misspoken words. He just stood still, his eyes threatening to betray him. It was just the two of them now. That didn't make things any better for him. It was then that he heard one question.

"_Where do you hail from? Why do you roam these lands."_

Sam couldn't speak about his quest, but he couldn't lie either. He was bad at it, and it would only get him deeper into trouble than he already was.

"_Speak_!"

Sam was left with no other option but to obey. He managed to tell the man that his intention was only to journey past Rohan, and that he meant no harm. He shared his past, just leaving out the details of the ring. He claimed that he had set off on an expedition with his friends. He spoke of the journey to Bree, that they had been pursued by riders. Of their colour, nature, or loyalty to the enemy he said nothing. He spoke of his companion's death. Of his journey with Boromir. He told the man about Boromir's death. At this point, the man stopped him. Sam was afraid he'd said something wrong, but it wasn't so. It was rather the news that he had brought with him. _The death of the Steward-Prince._ It was ill news indeed. The man asked just one more question after that. A question that Sam had wanted to evade. He asked him why he was found with the Uruks, and what he had to do with them. Sam then decided to ask the man a question he had long kept in mind. How could he trust a man he hardly knew? He thought he would be punished for his impudence, but to his surprise, the man replied.

"_I am Éomerof Rohan, Third Marshall of the Riddermark, nephew of King Théoden. My men and I have been exiled for fighting against the Uruk-Hai under the control of Saruman. I mean no harm to you, as long as you are honest. My cousin was here a few days ago. He was here to fight the orcs raiding our village-to protect our people, but never returned. He was killed on that fateful day, and so were all those accompanying him. You were found bound by ropes, lying on the battlefield, yet not weaponless. What is it that brought you under their captivity?"_

Sam decided to tell Éomer about everything that he needed to know. With the exception of the ring, of course. After all, he too was preparing to fight against the Dark Lord Sauron, and in this, the were allies, not enemies. He told Éomer about the burden that he had to bear. The burden of journeying across Mordor. He did not reveal much more. Just that it was the task appointed to him, and of its nature, he claimed he knew not any more than the Marshall himself did. About the Uruks not knowing that the task was his, just that one of his kind had been set up to it. They were looking for his dead friend, whom they thought, was still alive and in hiding. After all, the Nine had fled by the time Frodo had died. They thought that he would lead them to him, and thus, they wanted him alive. They tried to make him tell them by trying things so cruel, he couldn't bear it, but he had no choice. He was there when Théodred died. He was there, but he did nothing, and for that, he was punished. That is why he was found lying on the battlefield, ready to embrace death when it came to him.

Having said this, he pleaded with Éomer to let him go. Éomer agreed, telling the halfling that he had to go past the Kingdom of Gondor, and past Cirith Ungol, if he had to get to Mordor unseen. He told Sam that he would try and keep his lands safe, and that he would try to help. Nobody would know of their conversation, or his quest. His secret would stay safe. Éomer bid him farewell, and once more, Sam found himself walking towards oblivion. At least now, he knew the way. He still had a chance. He wouldn't give up this time. Not without a tough fight.


	11. Smeágol

It took him days together to reach his next destination. Cirith Ungol now stood before him. The only path that would give him the highest chances of remaining hidden from the others. The winding stairs were dark, not a ray of light passing through. He could see nothing of what lay ahead of him, but he _had_ to go in. He had been warned of an unknown danger that lay there, and yet, he had to walk in to the place from which none had returned alive, so that the hope of men may yet live. There was no true heir yet, to the throne of Gondor, but Middle-Earth _had_ to be saved. He walked up the stairs, carrying with him a little dagger that Éomer had given to him, to protect himself. It wasn't much, but it was all that could be given to him right then. He fingered his blade. He was ready to draw it out any minute, only he wasn't skilled with them. Suddenly, he heard a small sound. He turned around, only to find nobody there. It must have been his imagination. Maybe he couldn't bear the burden anymore. Then, he heard it again. This time, he was sure something had been there. He walked around a bit, trying to find out what was following him. He was sure it wasn't a lot of people, for the footsteps were barely audible. Whatever it was, he had no idea what it wanted to do with him. Unfortunately, he found an answer before he was prepared for it. A creature was at his neck, trying to choke him.

Without further thought, Sam unsheathed the sword, and tried to get the creature off his back. He then held the sword at his throat. "What do you want with me?" he asked, trying to sound as intimidating as possible. He tried to hide the fear that was creeping into him. Fear of killing, and another fear he was all too familiar with. The fear of _death_. "_Hobbitses_..." the creature hissed viciously. "_Stole my precious..." Gollum!_ he realized with a start. He had learnt enough from Bilbo to know not to let Gollum live if ever they found him again, for if they felt any pity, then Gollum would see that their lives come to an end, out of vengeance from the past. He knew he _shouldn't_ let Gollum live any more, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. After all, what was he? A gardener! With great effort, he bound Gollum to a tree nearby, using a rope he had found lying there. He fastened the rope as tightly as he could, threatening to kill Gollum, if he ever attempted to free himself, hoping that for fear for his life, Gollum wouldn't try to hatch any plot for a while.

Once again, without any warning, Sam left for the stairs, fastening, and inspecting Gollum's bonds one last time before he left. With a sense of dread upon him, Sam entered the dark pathway. He could see nothing at all. He knew it was too dangerous, but he tried his best to walk ahead. Then, hardly a few moments into the pathway, he tripped. He knew not what it was, and so he thought it to be a branch. A little more distance travelled, and he tripped once again. "Something must have been off with me, that's all", he thought to himself, continuing where the path led him. Try as he may, his fear was getting the better of him, and he knew it. His heart was pounding. Something was going to go terribly amiss. Then, it happened. This time, he tripped over something much more higher above the ground, and when he tried to grab onto anything to his side that would break his fall, the realization hit him. The sticky substance that he had held on to. The thick substance that he had tripped on time and again. He knew what they were. Gollum had let it slip that the path was being watched by a fiery guardian with whom no one dared cross paths. He knew who the guardian was. Rather, he knew _what_ it was. The spider webs all around him, along with bones and corpses of past victims told him as such. He was tresspassing the lair of an unforgiving arachnid. _He was trapped._


	12. The Passing

Before Sam could prepare himself for a fight, he heard a movement among the cobwebs. He heard a chatter. He heard hisses, and he heard the approach of a spider. He drew his sword out once again, knowing that it wasn't a fight that he could avoid. First, he slashed out at the webs that bound him. Then, he started moving ahead, searching for the spider. Soon enough, he found it. He knew he had, for he could see a vague figure of the arachnid, and it was huge. Standing before him was Shelob, the eldest daughter of Ungoliant who had helped Morgoth destroy the light of the two trees in the Blessed Realm. Sam was way too small in comparison, but he was going to give it a try. He hadn't come all the way, nearly to the gates of Mordor, losing so many people, only to turn back in defeat. Even if it was only the first time he was wielding a sword without company, he would make it count. He would show the creature what hobbits were made of. That they were much more than that met the eye. That he wouldn't be easy to get over with.

As Sam fought, he swung his sword towards the spider with surprising speed and power. Fear of death, and thirst for revenge can often power people to unexpected victories. He struck the evil creature, but couldn't do much impact, for he hadn't struck with the right part of the blade. He fought with a renewed strength, anger surging through his mind, and fueling his speed. Everything he was angry with came back to him once again. He wanted revenge. Revenge for all that had been happening. For Frodo's death, for Boromir's death, for the death of all the poor souls of Middle-Earth, and for all those that this wicked spawn of Ungoliant had killed without any warning, without any cause. Of course, it wasn't easy for him, with all the cobwebs. After all, it was Shelob's home turf, but he tried. Thinking one last time of revenge, with all his might, Sam struck the spider, who wailed out in agony. It gave a deep hiss, and retreated once more into the dark. That is when the disaster came. He had made a mistake. He had been so relieved with the retreat of the spider that he hadn't noticed anything else. He should have known that evil spawn would stop at nothing to win. Specially, when they are predators like Shelob. Slowly, he tried to make his way out of Shelob's lair. His arm was hurting from the sudden movements. After all, he hadn't been trained to wield a sword, much less, for battle. In fact,the weapon he had in hand was the one Strider had leant him and his companions at Weathertop. They weren't too sharp, lest they harm themselves. Sam's strength had left him, and every time he moved, it hurt like he was being impaled by a thousand knives. Suddenly, it hurt so much that he couldn't bear it any further.

Sam supported himself on the walls of the passage. He was clueless. He didn't know what was causing so much pain. He grabbed his arm, hoping it would soothe some of the pain. It was only then that he saw a massive wound on his arm. It was turning into a hue of black very soon. He hadn't escaped the fight unhurt. He had been stung, and it was taking its toll on him. He was becoming dizzy. His legs were starting to fail him, and it seemed to him that the world around him had become nothing but a blur. Then, it came again. This time, it hit him from the back. It passed right through him. He saw it protruding through his front. It had pierced him, right through his heart. He crumpled to the ground. Blood was pouring through his wounds, and the poison was spreading. His life was leaving him, but not his guilt. Every time he gasped for breath, his guilt would only grow. Every time he coughed and struggled for his life, more blood would pour out of him, until it lay in a pool around him. It wasn't usual to bleed when he had been bitten by just a spider, but it had pierced his vitals. There was no hope for him. His breathing grew more labored, and his skin was losing its color. The poison had spread throughout his body now. He could see himself dying,but his face did not have the peace that most souls usually did. Death was not the end,when he could rest in peace. Neither was it the beginning of much more. It was full of pain, much more than it had been in life. It was full of regret, for now, with his failure, all of Middle-Earth had sealed its doom. He had started shaking violently now. He shuddered one last time and then lay still. _Forever_.


	13. The Last Alliance

Word had gotten out about the creature that was found roaming the regions close to Cirith Ungol. As soon as Éomer heard of it he knew that if he had to get any more information about the fate of the quest at hand, he had to go there soon. He had no time to waste. He gathered the most trusted, and strongest of his men, and made for the pass, prepared for anything that he could be faced with, but what he found there was surprising even to him. He found a hideous creature there, and from the very look of it, he realized it meant no good to anyone. He held a sword at its throat and asked it what it was doing in those lands. He wasn't surprised with the answer it gave him. It had something to do with a hobbit, and he was pleased. There was still some hope left, but what came next shattered his hope. The creature stood with a cruel look on it's face, along a look of triumph. It said that the hobbit had met his end, and a cruel one at that. He would never return from there ever again, and then it kept saying something about its _precious_. No good would come from leaving the creature alive, and so, with one clean stroke of his blade, he put an end to the miserable life of the creature.

Éomer knew that there was no more time to waste. Sam had been killed, and now, it didn't matter even if the ring remained lost. Sauron had returned, and unless the ring was destroyed, Sauron would never be completely vanished. They had a final chance of delaying his return, that is all, and in dark times like these, he couldn't trust that it would be possible, and yet, he hurried to the Golden Halls of Meduseld, where he saw his uncle sat on the throne, as King of Rohan, healed by the White Rider. He knew there was no need to keep anything hidden, for the bearer of the ring was now gone, and the ring had been lost to a creature nobody would dare to fight against. He told his king about the ill-news that he bore. He urged to call upon all other kingdoms of Middle-Earth, to form a final alliance like the days of old, to vanquish Sauron before he became too strong. Before the ring was returned to its master. Riders were sent out to all the free people, with a message to form one last mighty alliance against the One. One final alliance was made. All rallied to form _one_ army - Elves, dwarves, men, and two wizards. The Rangers had heeded the call too. In fact, they had learnt that Aragorn was indeed the heir to Isildur, and was already leading the men in defence of Shire and the other regions closer to Gondor. All of them had joined them for the battle.

A war-council was held. King Théoden , King Thranduil, Prince Legolas, King Dain II, The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, Brand, grandson of Bard the Bowman, Steward Prince Faramir, Prince Imrahil and Lord Aragorn. All of them helped draw up a battle-plan.They would be helped by the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, Beorn the sskin-changer, and the wizards Radagast, and Gandalf. The power of the three rings, and the powers of the Istari would have to suffice for now. The three rings would not be used to draw power. Only to preserve the lands that yet remained within their grasp. The army had been divided into different factions, each headed by their leaders, so that their chance of success would be a bit higher, though none could say what was to come, if Sauron himself fought the battle along with the Nazgul. Moreover, they had even the White Wizard to deal with. Cúrunir, Saruman of many colours, he went by many names, all equally sinister in their meanings. The dark always had powerful allies, for there were many who would give up anything for power. They would all wait for more people to gather, and to prepare for battle. Few days hence, they would march upon the Black Gate, to fight their last battle, for if they won, they would have peace. If they lost, they wouldn't be there to fight anyway. Nevertheless, for all the free people of Middle Earth, it was do, or _die_.


	14. The Last Stand

Tens and thousands of brave warriors had assembled in front of the Black Gate, to challenge the armies of Sauron,in a desperate attempt to save their world from evil. Most men who could pick a weapon were here to fight for their family. The leaders addressed their armies a final time, before they marched into battle. Even against such dark forces, their army was a formidable one. After all, they had the elves and wizards on their side. Yes. Wizards. In fact, Gandalf had returned just in time for the battle, and he was not alone. He had brought the Eagles along too. Even Beorn was fighting on their side. The elves were stretched thin between guarding their own lands as they fought alongside the other races that still roamed Arda. The three rings could not be trusted for it was suspected that the One Ring had been returned to its master. As for the dwarves from the Iron Hills, they would give their all for this one battle. They had a score to settle. The lives of their kin, to avenge. If anybody could fight the darkness, it was them. With one fierce battle cry elves, men and dwarves drew their weapons, and charged. The battle had begun. Saruman and the Nazgúl were there too, causing much damage, and death. Soon, corpses of the fallen warriors lay strewn across the battlefield. The land was covered with blood. Orcs were being killed, but many more took their place. Very soon, they witnessed the site they had dreaded. The Dark Lord himself, overlooked the battle, and that was not all. He had it with him. The One Ring.

One by one, the men fell to his power, along with their leaders. They fought with courage and honor, and yet, none would live to sing of their valor. First, it was the riders of Rohan. Led unto battle by King Théoden, and the Third Marshall Éomer, they faced the darker forces valiantly, yet their courage was ebbing away every second. Their men were heavily outnumbered, both in numbers and in strength, for it wasn't fair to pit mere men against the Nazgûl, yet, _nothing_ is fair in war and game. Soon, the outcome of their struggle was all too vivid...it was a losing battle. No man could kill the wraiths, and so, the wraiths would kill them. King Théoden was crushed under his horse. None too soon, Éomer too met his end, and it wasn't any less gruesome. A malady already lay upon him, from attacking the ring-wraiths. Now, it wasn't the wraith he fought. It was the rest of the army. Orcs and Uruks alike. His steed had been felled, and he was alone, against a sea of many others. Soon enough, death knocked at his door. He had failed his duty by failing to save his king. He had but one thought in his mind. Éowyn. His sister. One last time, he sent a final prayer to keep her safe from further harm, and then, he left Middle-Earth one last time. Never to return.

On one hand, Éowyn and the two hobbits that had stubbornly tagged along with Aragorn had made a deathly escapade to the battlefield. Only one of them fought for the glory of being a warrior. The other to had a bone to pick. Two of their own had been cruelly snatched away by those they now fought against. Merry and Pippin weren't skilled enough to escape the battle unhurt, but with the little knowledge that they had gathered over their journey was enough to get them out alive, for they had an advantage of smaller size and a strong sense of survival and determination. Aided by one of them, Éowyn had managed to put an end to the Witch King of Angmar. They each came to possess wounds that day. Both seen and concealed. They would never recover completely, but that was a price they were willing to pay. The riders who had been the cause of her brother and father's deaths would no longer stay to kill another. They had been vanquished by a woman and a hobbit, just as foretold.

On the other side of the battlefield was Aragorn, and he had taken on the most dangerous of them all, Sauron himself, just as his forefather Isildúr had. There was no one else to aide him, for Gandalf had to counter Saruman, the traitor. Some of the Nazgûl were taken on by Gwaihir,and the other eagles. As for, Beorn, he wreacked havoc wherever he could. He couldn't depend on the elves, or his own rangers either. The Ring of Barahir was his to keep. He was the heir of Isildur, and it was his choice to make. He had to embrace his identity now, for the welfare of Middle-Earth. He gave hope to the people of Middle Earth, when they knew there could be none. He was weary from fighting with the dark lord himself. He lacked enough power to face him all alone. He could wound Sauron, but could never kill him, for the ring had not been destroyed, and the ring was what stood between freedom, and death. Yet, he fought like one possessed, for he had just witnessed the sacrifice of a prince's life. For _him_. Legolas Thranduilion, the one who, over such a small period of time, had become a brother to him in all but blood, fell to defend _him_. The _King_. Like a true king, Aragorn fought _for_ his people, _with_ his people...and _died_ with them. He had fulfilled his duty, but Isildúr's heir was gone...so was his steward...and his _people_.


	15. Adieu My Brother

**_I know the last chapter ended with the death of Aragorn, and that this chapter may seem a bit confusing due to past events, but I'd like to inform all you readers that this chapter happens before Aragorn's death, more like some kind of flashback._****Legolas POV**

The battle was far from turning in our favor. The tables had turned ever since Sauron entered the battlefield, with his _ring_. There wasn't much hope left now, but it was worth a try. A desperate attempt to save the people of Middle-Earth. All races that now roamed Middle-Earth had taken part in this battle, including my people. The wood-elves. They had rallied under King Thranduil, but now, the welfare of my people was far from my concern. The Lord and Lady of Lórien would guide the elves, but I had to protect _him_. The one who had become a brother to me. The one who was the heir to the throne of Gondor. Aragorn, son of Arathorn. True to his word to stand by his people, he had led them to the battle-field, and was now heading towards Sauron himself.

I hadn't known him for long, but I had known him enough to know that my duty was towards Middle-Earth,which as of now, meant that my duty was to _him_. No, not as an elf, but as a resident of Middle-earth. Not many have faith in the line of men. They failed the day Isildúr did, but today, there is one who can lead them. One who is every bit a worthy heir to the White City. He was one who would give his blood to protect me, and I would gladly do so for him. If the life of a prince was worth anything, then my life would give my people all the more cause to rally to Aragorn. They wouldn't turn away now, seeing their Prince fighting side by side with a man. Now, seeing Aragorn fight on the battlefield, watching him bravely fight so many Uruks at once, I could see that he was tiring. He would be overpowered. Not yet, but soon. He needed time. Time to give our people one last chance at survival. It was then that Sauron himself strode across the battlefield. He wouldn't be able to fight this battle alone. Someone had to save him, that someone being me. Nobody else would take his place taking on enemy hordes so that he can dight the Dark Lord. Middle-Earth could do without it's woodland prince, but not without it's _estel_. It's _hope_.

It seemed that I had rushed to his aid just in time. A troll had taken its chance to overpower him when he had left his back undefended. I didn't need to be told by anyone to decide a course of action. I thought of it no more. I would be called reckless by all those that knew me and those who didn't, my kingdom would possibly lose its prince, but the fate of the people we loved alike mattered more. I looked at my father, _my_ king, one last time, silently saying my last goodbyes. He caught my eye, his own filled with unspoken love but pleading me to think twice, but even he couldn't stop me now. I was ready to make a sacrifice if it came to it. The last I saw of Aragorn before I ran into the thick of the battle was his one last look at my approaching form, his eyes filled with gratefulness, yet unsaid horror. He knew what I was going to do as did my father, yet there was no stopping me, and they knew it only too well. Everything after that was a blur of events. Knives twirling, blood spraying across the battlefield, man,elf and orc alike, and Aragorn's desperate cry filled with anger and grief all at once. _It is over then, _I thought. I knew father could not save me now, in the middle of a battle when he was fighting his own share of orc filth. He would lose his son just as he had lost his father. Across the battlefield, I met his eye before my inevitable fall. _Namárië, Ada. Forgive me. I will be waiting, _I whispered to him. Namárië. He didn't say it. He couldn't. He only nodded, and so it was to end. The sound of an arrow whizzing across, swords being brought down, and _pain_. I knew it then. My job here was done. I would face the Halls of Mandos now, and it is up to him, to finish what we had begun.

**Aragorn's POV**

Legolas...Why did he have to sacrifice himself? He was a Prince, an elf who had a long life ahead of him. Perhaps many more millennia, for elves were nearly immortal. Most of all, he was like a brother to me. I had lost not one, but many of my brothers to the battle. Yet, this one nearly hurt the most, for I had known him but for a while. I had crossed paths with him before when I was still a mere ranger. We had aided each other since then but he owed me no allegiance. I wasn't his king. My reluctance to shoulder my duty earlier had cost the lives of princes. Futures of Rohan, Gondor, and The Woodland Realm alike. Kings who would have led their kingdoms to prosperity. Unshed tears of rage filled my eyes. I had to avenge them all. Kill all those that had cost me another brother. I would face the Dark Lord himself, for Legolas had given his life for mine, so that I could fulfil my duty to Middle-Earth just as Legolas had. I will defend our cause to the last breath. Sauron would not rule Middle Earth. Not any time soon. I raised my blade, reforged from what was left of Narsíl, and with one last battlecry, charged at the one responsible for all this pain. Soon, I was weary from fighting, and the wounds, and I knew I wouldn't last much longer, but I couldn't give up yet. Not so easily, so as to let all those sacrifices go in vain. No. I had to strike fast. I made one last strike. A desperate attempt to save those that lived. I managed to sever the ring from his hand, just like my forefather, Isildúr had. Sauron would be vanquished for now. The ring was yet to be destroyed, but my duty had been done. I had saved my people, and avenged the lives of my brothers. I would have to fight no longer. I would now rest in peace, and join the sons of Gondor and Rohan in the realms of the afterlife.


End file.
